They always compared me to expensive art.
Art to be admired, revered and adored.
A true masterpiece, they called my heart,
But, it was one not to be easily acquired.
I didn’t want to be a masterpiece.
I wanted to be an intricate jigsaw,
To be finished piece by painstaking piece,
Proudly displayed where every eye it would draw.
I didn’t want to be a masterpiece.
I wanted to be a lovingly knit jumper.
The fibres of my soul, woven through theirs like fine fleece,
Wrapped in the warmth of their focused and loving labour.
I didn’t want to be a masterpiece.
I wanted to be someone’s meticulous needlepoint.
I wanted the perseverance to never cease
Even if we differed on a viewpoint.
I didn’t want to be a masterpiece.
Unless it was to the incurable artist who,
Saw me as indelible ink, and loved me for it too.
I didn’t want to be a masterpiece.
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